


Rose Weasley's Day Out

by manycoloureddays



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Gen, Kid Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-02
Updated: 2017-11-02
Packaged: 2019-01-28 05:41:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12599460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manycoloureddays/pseuds/manycoloureddays
Summary: He knocks on Rose’s door and waits. There’s a piece of paper on it, in Ron’s handwriting, signed with Rosie’s wobbly signature, and covered in Chudley Cannons stickers that reads: BEWARE OF DRAGONS AND CRUMPLED HORNED SNORKACKS. KNOCK BEFORE ENTERING. BY ORDER OF SIR ROSIE GRANGER-WEASLEY.Harry babysits Rose for the day.





	Rose Weasley's Day Out

**Author's Note:**

> this is incredibly fluffy, i have no explanations of apologies. enjoy!
> 
> thanks pantsaretherealheroes, you are the real hero for editing all my fic!

It is a truth universally acknowledged that Monday mornings are the worst. Monday mornings mean the weekend is over; it means classes and work and early rising. Or, that’s what it means for most of Harry’s friends. He has listened to Ron groan his way through many a Sunday lunch, joined by a chorus of Weasleys. Even Hermione, who loves work more than most, has been known to complain. She had received an ‘I think I’m allergic to Mondays’ mug for her birthday last year. 

 

Harry has no trouble getting out of bed on Monday mornings though. Mondays are Harry-Rosie days, and Harry-Rosie days are sacred. Harry-Rosie days are epic.

 

Two years ago, Hermione had started talking about going back to work at the office a couple of days a week, just to start getting a feel for it again. She’d been working from home, but trying to organise a lobby group via owl had become unfeasible, and Hermione, not that he’d ever tell her this, is a bit of a control freak. Ron, who had only recently completed his auror training, could only afford to drop one day a week, and even then he was on call. They hadn’t wanted to overburden Mrs Weasley - she already had several grandchildren at The Burrow on a Monday - and were considering various Muggle and magical childcare options over dinner when Harry had offered. They made a point of having him over once a week, regardless of any other time they spent together, and that night had been Ron’s bolognaise - an unmissable night.

 

“But Harry, are you sure?” Hermione asked, wine glass paused halfway to her lips. “It wouldn’t be too much to ask?”

 

“You’re not asking Hermione, I’m offering. Besides,” he grinned. “I’ve faced worse than your two year old. I’ve handled a Basilisk, Dementors, and Teddy’s must-eat-everything stage. Besides she’s my favourite goddaughter. Why wouldn’t I want to spend the day with her?”

 

“She’s your only goddaughter mate, but I take your point,” Ron said, coming back in from the kitchen with the pot of spaghetti. At the look from his wife he’d shrugged. “What? I thought you might want seconds too. It’s good tonight, if I do say so myself.” 

 

And that had been that. Two years later and Harry still has the occasional Monday, even if all of their schedules have changed a little since then. 

  
  
  


So when Harry’s alarm goes off at 6.30 on Monday morning, he might not jump out of bed with a spring in his step and a smile on his face, but he definitely doesn’t grumble. Which is saying something, seeing as it is a school holiday morning and he doesn’t actually have to be up at what McGonagall would call a civilised hour, and Harry calls arse o’clock. His Hogwarts teaching schedule does mean he can lend a hand during the summer though.

 

He showers quickly, and grabs his wallet, backpack, and keys, then hurries to his fireplace with a handful of Floo powder, and steps into the flames.

 

He steps out into the familiar morning chaos of the Granger-Weasley household. Harry has still not decided whether the chaos is genetic, or just something that comes with the addition of a child. This is mainly because he doesn’t have enough data, all the families with kids he’s close to are Weasleys - although that will change in ten weeks, when Lavender has her baby. For now, the chaotic morning rush remains something he associates with Weasleys, and family. 

 

Hermione is still in her pyjamas, even though Harry knows she has a meeting in twenty minutes, and she’s darting from their bedroom to the kitchen, packing her bag one handed so she can keep a steady grip on her mug of coffee. Ron is fully dressed in his red Auror’s robes, but he looks like he’s falling asleep where he’s propped himself up against the kitchen bench. The kettle starts whistling and he startles awake.

 

“Mornin’ Harry,” he says blearily, scrubbing his eyes. “Toast? I already put some extra in.”

 

“Great, thanks Ron.” Harry dumps his bag, and looks around for the tell tale sign of frizzy black hair and golden snitch pyjamas. 

 

“She’s in her room.” Then, when Harry immediately turns and heads down the hall, he calls out, “Try and coax her down for some breakfast, will you! I see your priorities. Whatever, I don’t care. It’s not like I ever saved your life or anything.”

 

Hermione, on one of her trips back down the hall, kisses Harry on the cheek, rolling her eyes at her husband. “You’re so dramatic, Ron!” 

 

Harry listens to their lazy back and forth, smiling. He never feels as at home as he does when he’s somewhere warm, listening to Ron and Hermione bicker. 

 

He knocks on Rose’s door and waits. There’s a piece of paper on it, in Ron’s handwriting, signed with Rosie’s wobbly signature, and covered in Chudley Cannons stickers that reads: BEWARE OF DRAGONS AND CRUMPLED HORNED SNORKACKS. KNOCK BEFORE ENTERING. BY ORDER OF SIR ROSIE GRANGER-WEASLEY. Harry doesn’t know many people who have dared disobey the sign, but the ones who do end up facing a lecture that could only be delivered by Hermione’s daughter and Molly’s granddaughter. Rose already does cross disappointment like pro. 

 

“Come in.” 

 

He pushes open the door, and looks around. He’s never sure what to expect in Rose’s room. Hermione has enchanted the ceiling, and the exposed parts of the walls to reflect whatever Rose is interested in. When she was going through her dinosaur phase earlier in the year, pterodactyls moved across the ceiling, a Tyrannosaurus walked between the closet and the bookshelves, and a stegosaur was in the habit of hiding in the back of her wardrobe. This morning it feels like walking into outer space; the main light is off, the room lit mostly by the constellations that drift slowly above him - some he even recognises - and the moon is huge and cheesy near the window. 

 

Rose is sitting cross legged at the foot of her bed, squinting at the rock collection Luna started for her. The stars glow brighter the longer she stays focused, and then the rocks lift up from the floor and hang for a few seconds, before she lets them fall. 

 

She reminds him so strongly of both her parents that sometimes Harry has to make a conscious effort not to say something like  _ you look like your mother, except for your eyes, you’ve got your father’s eyes. And his concentration face -  _ the face she has when she’s using magic is exactly like Ron’s chess face. But Rose has both her parents, she knows what they look like. And no kid needs to grow up in their parents’ shadow. 

 

Harry clears his throat. Rose looks up and grins. 

 

“Uncle Harry!” She scrambles over to him, her little arms wrapping tight around his legs. “Did you see that?”

 

“I did! You’re getting so good at that.” She beams at him. “So, Sir Rosie, what are we going to do today?”

 

They make their way down to the kitchen discussing the pros and cons of a visit to the Natural History Museum during the school holidays. On the one hand, there will be loads of people: Harry gets itchy in crowds and Rose hates looking at the exhibits from Harry’s shoulders, which is the only way she’d be able to see over all the other patrons. On the other hand, it’s the Natural History Museum, and they have a dinosaur (or a cast of dinosaur fossil, which is still cool; he and Rose visit regularly to have a chat with Dippy) and a pretty good holiday program if Rose feels like interacting with people her own age. Rose has begun making an excellent case for a trip to the zoo when Ron puts a bowl of porridge in front of her, and a plate of buttered toast and a mug of tea in front of Harry. 

 

“Sounds like you’ve got a fun day planned,” he says. “I’d love to see some lions and monkeys. I wish I was going with you guys.”

 

“You say that every week, Daddy,” Rose says around a mouthful of oats and brown sugar. 

 

Ron ruffles her hair, which earns him a scowl. “And I mean it every week, Rosie. Especially this week,” he says to Harry, in an undertone. “Working this Wylie case is like running straight at a brick wall. I know that, because you and I did that and it bloody hurt.”

 

Harry snorts. “I’ll make dinner tonight, pick up a bottle of something on your way home. You can tell me all about it.”

 

Ron kisses Rose’s forehead, claps Harry on the shoulder, and nicks a piece of toast off his plate as he heads to the fire. “See, that is why you’re my best mate. Have a good day Rosie. Love you both.” And then he disappears into the green flames. 

 

Not even a minute later, Hermione runs into the kitchen, her wand and pen stuck haphazardly in her hair, rifling through her satchel. Harry does a quick scan of the kitchen and sees a blue folder labelled WEREWOLF LEGISLATION propped up in the drying rack. He summons it and waves it under her nose. 

 

“Hmm?” She looks up, and he can see the moment she goes from frazzled to focused. “Where was it? Oh, nevermind. I’m all over the place this morning. It’s this stupid woman on the Committee for the Disposal of Dangerous Creatures. She’s -” Hermione glances at Rose. “I’ll tell you about it tonight.” She squeezes his arm, then strides over to the table. “Be good today, darling.”

 

“I’m always good,” says Rose, looking affronted. 

 

“I’m sure you are,” Hermione smiles. “Do I get a hug?” 

 

Rose reaches up and hugs Hermione without looking up from the comic she’s been reading. Harry intercepts Hermione on her way to the fire, and pulls her in for a proper hug. 

 

“I’m cooking tonight. We can talk through the Wylie case, and then plan the demise of this second coming of Umbridge, okay?”

 

“Perfect.”

 

“Knock ‘em dead.”

 

She smirks, and Harry can suddenly see the girl who decked Malfoy and trapped a reporter in a jar behind her harried exterior. “I always do.” 

 

Harry chuckles, and turns to find Rose watching him. He raises an eyebrow. “What’s it going to be, Freckles?”

 

“Zoo,” she says. “Zoo and the trains.”

His goddaughter is the best. It is going to be a very, very good day. 

  
  
  


Rose, like many four year olds, is obsessed with trains. And, thanks to her grandfather (who still waxes rhapsodic about “trains  _ in tunnels,  _ ingenious”), she is particularly obsessed with the London Underground. Harry, who has lived in London most of his adult life, and spends a lot of time avoiding attention by hanging out in Muggle London, is mostly uninterested in the Tube (aside from wanting trains to arrive in a timely manner). But he has Rose standing next to him, holding his hand, and saying “it’s coming, it’s coming” in her most excited voice when she feels the air change, and he has to admit, trains are pretty cool.

 

“Are we getting on this one?” she asks. “Is this the one that goes to Elephant and Castle?” 

 

Ever since she learned its name, Elephant and Castle has been her favourite stop. Admittedly she was a little disappointed the first time they got off there and there was no sign of Babar anywhere, and Harry would not pick the area as a destination himself, but they’ve found a cafe that does good hot chocolates. 

 

“We’re not going to Elephant and Castle today, Rosie. We’re going to the zoo.”

 

Once they’re on the train, Rose watches her face reflected back to her in the dark glass. 

 

“So, what do you want to see today?” he asks her. 

 

“Lions, and butterflies,” she says immediately. “Oh, and gorillas. Can we see the gorillas too?” Which leads them into a conversation about all the different types of primates which lasts the whole train journey.

  
  


They step out of the station into warm sunshine and Harry is tempted to just find a patch of grass and lie down for a nap. But he has a feeling that won’t go over well with Rose. 

 

The walk to the zoo isn’t far, but Rose has little legs, so to make sure she doesn’t run out of steam before she gets to see all three of her chosen enclosures, Harry scoops her up and puts her on his shoulders. 

 

She giggles, and kicks her feet gently against his chest. 

 

Harry’s only trip to the zoo as a child had been overshadowed by setting an enormous snake on Dudley, but he has been enough times since Rose was old enough to appreciate it that he knows his way around pretty well now. They tick off all the animals on the list, and some more in between. By the time they’ve communed with the Gryffindor lions - roaring loud enough for the lions to hear them, but not loud enough to be told off by zookeepers, they’ve learned that lesson - and Rose has told him a story about the gorilla and his pet dragonfly, and they have had a record breaking four butterflies land on their hair and t-shirts, Harry nonchalantly suggests ice-cream.

 

“Yes!” Rose punches the air. “Yes, yes, yes!” She spends far too much time with Harry and various Weasley watching quidditch matches, it’s eerily similar to George and Charlie’s Ginny-just-scored celebration. 

 

They both get vanilla soft serves with flakes, and Rose, ever the excited eater, ends up with an ice-cream mustache. 

  
  
  


They hold hands as they walk back to the train - Harry taking smaller strides than usual, and Rose skipping every few steps.

 

“Uncle Harry?” He looks down at her. She has her concentration face back. “Why don’t we go to the moon?”

 

“Er. Well.” This is a relatively simple question in the whole scheme of things. She has been known to stump him - she’s been known to stump her mother, and Hermione’s the smartest person he knows. But Harry still isn’t quite sure which of the possible answers he should start with. He goes with, “because it’s too far to get to before dinner.” She pulls a face. “ _ And,  _ because we can’t breathe in space.”

 

“But we’re,” she looks around suspiciously. “Magic,” she finishes in a whisper. “Why can’t we use it to go to the moon?”

 

“I don’t really know, kiddo. I mean, I haven’t heard of a spell that would get us there, and it’s certainly something I’d remember, because I would love to go to the moon. But we can look it up when we get home.”

 

“Okay. Uncle Harry?”

 

“Yeah?” 

 

“Why do we have to use wands? I don’t use a wand and I do magic. Why do you use a wand?”

 

He is somewhat prepared for this one, even if his understanding of wandlore and magical theory is still very limited. 

 

“Wands help focus and amplify our magic. Do you know what amplify means?” She shakes her head. “It, um, makes our magic bigger and stronger. So, what you can do now doesn’t always work, right?”

 

“Sometimes I can do lots of magic, and sometimes I can’t get my rocks to move,” she says slowly, trying to put the pieces together in her head.

 

“Exactly. Kids, before they get their wands, can do big bits of magic when they’re emotional. I was trying to run away from some people when I was at school and ended up on the top of a building.”

 

“Cool,” she breathes.

 

He grins. “Yeah, it was pretty cool. But I couldn’t always do magic. Having a wand and spells means you can point your magic in a direction and tell it what to do.”

 

“Okay. Uncle Harry?”

 

The sun is warm on his back, and he has ice-cream sticky fingers in his hand, and he’s willing to bet all the money in his Gringotts vault that he is nowhere near finished answering impossible questions. 

 

When they turn into a lane off a side street so he can Apparate to The Leaky Cauldron she pauses for breath, but as soon as their feet are on solid ground again the questions start back up. Harry answers as best he can, and when he doesn’t have an answer for her they make a note to find out together later. 

 

She pauses, briefly, while they get lunch. Eating a pasty so enthusiastically she ends up with filling behind her ears must take some focus. But they start up again as soon as Harry has paid and the bell on the bakery door has stopped jingling. 

 

In between questions, they drop into the apothecary so Harry can pick up some ingredients he’s running low on as well as the ingredients on a list George sent him last night, the Magical Menagerie to say hello to the animals, and Flourish and Blotts, who in recent years have expanded to include a library. Rose picks out several books on planets and constellations as well as  _ The Folk of the Faraway Tree,  _ which is the next Enid Blyton book Harry is going to read her, and Harry himself grabs another detective novel. 

 

“Ah, Mr Potter, and Rose, how are you today?” Mr Clement has owned Flourish and Blotts since Harry was in school and, like many of the shop owners along Diagon Alley, takes great pleasure in seeing the children he’s watched grow up come in with new little ones. It’s nice from some of them, and others, well, some of them make a point of exclaiming how much he’s grown and he’s twenty eight. He hasn’t grown in years. 

 

“Good,” they chorus, and earn a beam from the often stressed owner. 

 

“Ah, more Henrietta Twitchett mysteries, Mr Potter? You know, you might like this Muggle series I read a few years ago. Dorothy L. Sayers is the author. I’ll try and get some in for you, shall I?”

 

“Yeah, that’d be great. Thanks Mr Clement.”

 

Rose, who still cannot see above the counter tries to pull herself up high enough to look Mr Clement in the eye. 

 

“And Miss Rose, are you going to be studying Astronomy at Hogwarts this September?”

 

“No!” She giggles, delightedly, detaching herself from the counter so she can hold up four fingers. “I’m four!”

 

“Oh my! Really! But you’re so grown up,” Mr Clement says, winking at Harry. “And what do you two have planned for this afternoon?”

 

“We’re going to visit my uncle and draw pictures and read stories and cook dinner,” Rose says in one breath. 

 

“Yes, we are,” Harry says, putting all their books in his bag. “So we really should head off. It was nice to see you, Mr Clement. We’ll be back next week.”

 

“I look forward to it.”

  
  
  


Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes has a very different atmosphere to Flourish and Blotts, especially during the school holidays. It is jam packed with Hogwarts students who want to stock up on Wheezes classics like Skiving Snackboxes, and Daydream charms. He waves to a couple of students - the ones who don’t think it’s cool to ignore teachers on their break - before turning his attention back to his goddaughter. 

 

Rose clambers up onto Harry’s shoulders, and they dive into the crowd, past small explosions of fireworks and kids shaking with uncontrollable laughter, and up the stairs at the back of the shop. Rose reaches forward and knocks on the office door, and Harry lifts a hand to steady her. 

 

George pulls open the door, and grins huge and wide when he sees them there. He plucks Rose off Harry’s shoulders and swings her around in a circle. 

 

“If it isn’t my favourite youngest niece! And my favourite adopted brother and benefactor. Come in, come in.”

 

Harry rummages in his backpack and pulls out the bag from the apothecary. He drops two of his purchases on George’s desk.

 

“I picked up some Flobberworm mucus and bat spleen. What are you cooking up?” He has his suspicions based on his, admittedly limited, understanding of the ingredients, but George just smirks at him.

 

“Never you mind, Harry. Never you mind. Now,” he turns to Rose, who is spinning around in his desk chair. “Entertain me, niece o’ mine. Tell me something funny.”

  
  
  


A little over an hour later they are back at Ron and Hermione’s. Rose is drawing and colouring, her sketchbook and pencils covering most of the table in the kitchen, while Harry puts away the groceries, and Nick Cave’s  _ Abattoir Blues  _ is on the CD player. He’s pretty sure it’s his CD actually. He keeps lending them out when he should just buy his friends copies of their own. He didn’t get  _ Let Love In  _ back from Lavender (or Parvati, or Padma; he’s not sure how many other people they leant it to in the interim) for nearly a year - he’d had to buy it for her for her birthday, he was that excited about how much she’d loved it. 

 

“Get ready for looooooooove!” Rose sings along under her breath, her head nodding along. Harry is so proud. 

 

“Praise him!” Rose looks up and catches Harry dancing a little. She shakes her head. 

 

When the songs over Rose calls him to the table and hands over her finished drawings: one of a redhaired Willy Wonka he thinks might be George, surrounded by children floating in bubbles, one of the lion and the gorilla having tea in the butterfly house, and one of herself flying through the night sky towards a smiling moon. 

 

“Can you make these ones move, please?” she asks, her nose already nearly touching the page of her sketchbook, yellow pencil in hand. 

 

He taps his wand on the pages and mutters the charm, watching as the bubbles start to drift and George tips his head back in a laugh, as the lion pours tea and the gorilla shoves a whole cake in his mouth, and as Rose lands on the moon, beaming. Then he settles in with his own sketchbook, which is mostly full of lesson plans, and starts on a less narrative doodle. 

  
  
  


When Hermione gets home, Rose’s bedroom is tidy, her new drawings have been spelled to the fridge, they’ve read all about The Land of Marvels, and the chicken tikka masala is simmering on the stove. She collapses in the overstuffed couch in the lounge room with a sigh. 

 

“That smells amazing, Harry.” She flicks her wand, and a crayon comes zooming down the hall. “No crayons near the walls, Rose.”

 

“Sorry mum!” Harry hears the sound of small feet running down the hall, and looks over in time to see Rose launch herself onto the couch, arms already outstretched. Hermione gathers her neatly onto her lap and they chat about their respective days, while Harry finishes getting the rice on.

 

The fire crackles to life, green and cold, and Ron walks into the room, arms full of paperwork. It’s not Harry’s house - and he has, on occasion, felt as though he is intruding on his best friends’ lives, like he’s overstaying his welcome - but there is an overwhelming feeling of rightness when they are all together like this, when he has all of his favourite people, all his family, in one room. 

 

They talk about their days over dinner. Hermione tells them all about this woman who has been recently appointed to the Committee for the Disposal of Dangerous Creatures.

 

“Who in 2008 thinks it’s even remotely okay to suggest that we add werewolves to the list of ‘creatures and part humans’ we’re allowed to kill. She wants to take us back to the Dark Ages. It’s abhorrent.”

 

Ron spends twenty minutes ranting about his terrible partner who doesn’t understand protocol, let alone how to bend protocol to their advantage, and how little progress they are making with this string of robberies that have just escalated to include a homicide. He waves his fork around to underline each point. 

 

“And that, Harry, is why you should never worry about whether or not dropping out of Auror training was a good idea. It was a fantastic idea. Buchanan is driving me barmy.”

 

Harry and Hermione share a smile over their glasses. Hermione’s is suspiciously wineless. Not that she’s been known to overindulge on a work night, but she has had a rough couple of days - she barely even got a weekend. She must notice the question cross his face because once Ron’s rant comes to a frustrated close, she pours him another glass of wine and clears her throat. 

 

“Well, now that we’ve got all of today’s bad news out of the way” she says, smiling slightly. “I have an announcement.”

 

Harry and Ron both put their forks down. Ron catches her hand in his, and grins in anticipation. This is feeling eerily like a night almost five years ago. Harry grins back at him.

 

“Rose, darling,” Hermione drags her daughter’s attention away from the last few bits of rice that she’s pushing around her bowl. “Are you listening?”

 

Rose looks up, sees that everyone has dropped their cutlery, and puts her fork down too. “Yes, Mummy.”

 

“Well, I went to the Healer to confirm it this afternoon, but, well, I’m pregnant. We’re going to have another baby!” 

 

Ron shoves his chair away and whisks her up into a hug. Harry cheers, and feels like his grin is going to split his cheeks.

 

Ron and Hermione turn to look at Rose. She looks back, with a small smile on her face. Ron moves to her side and crouches down. “You’re going to be a big sister, Rosie. How does that sound?”

 

Rose scrunches up her face, thinking hard. “Like you when Aunty Ginny was born?” 

 

“Exactly like that, yeah. Except you’ll be the oldest. Like Uncle Bill, or Victoire and Molly and Fred.”

 

“Okay. That sounds fun.” She reaches out and wraps an arm around Ron’s neck, and he scoops her up into his arms. 

 

“I think so too.”

 

“Me too,” Hermione says. They all turn to look at Harry. 

 

“Yeah. Me too.”

  
  
  
  



End file.
